


Chill

by AlwaysBoth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dave Strider is chill, Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysBoth/pseuds/AlwaysBoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re totally cool. Nothing’s out of place in Striderville. Shit’s chiller than the south pole in winter… except not, because you’re about to do a triple backflip off the fucking handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Your name is Dave Strider, and you’re totally cool. Nothing’s out of place in Striderville. Shit’s chiller than the south pole in winter… except not, because you’re about to do a triple backflip off the fucking handle… or not. Either way, you’re freaking the hell out, and you don’t know what to do.

 

**> Dave: Calm down and assess the situation.**

You can’t calm down. Like you said, everything’s already chill. So maybe you lost a couple hours, maybe you were 46 minutes late to your day job, and maybe, just maybe you’re hallucinating that your customers are crocodiles.

“Nak! Naknak nak!” one of them shouts at you, but you can’t remember what it means, and you can’t think past the pain and blood from the bullet wounds littering your chest.

You know somewhere in the back of your mind that this isn’t right. The game is over. You’re not wounded, these aren’t crocs, they’re definitely not imps, and they are not crowding around to boil and eat you. This wound didn’t happen on Lohac anyway, and Jade’s not here. You’re _fine._ But you don’t register it, and you’re _not_ fine. You’re hyperventilating and about to collapse, and you need to get somewhere safe.

 

**> Dave: Abscond**

When you finally manage to sequester yourself in the restroom, your legs proceed to give out. Your blood starts staining the floor. You can’t change time anymore. You’ve become just another Doomed Dave. Alpha you will come along and see your body and then do it all better. Woe is you. Suck it up.

So you do. Slowly, very slowly, you calm the fuck down. You take a few deep breaths, think past the dying pain, and the blood around you disappears. The floor is once again just dirty grey tile. You’re in your intact work clothes in the dingy bathroom of a music store.

You’re not dying.

 

**== >**

“Dave?” one of your coworkers calls through the door. “You okay, dude?” It’s English, and you’re not in the game, and you’re fine.

You take a second to compose yourself, and then open the door. You give some witty comment to assure your coworker you haven’t flipped your shit, and then decide, perhaps, it’s best if you beg sick and go home. The clock is still ticking and that dog is still barking, and even though the song with the gunfire is over, your heart is still picking up pace and your chest is tightening so it’s hard to breathe.

 

**> Dave: Play hooky**

You don’t go home when you leave. Bro might be there, and if he attempts to strife with you in any way, you’ll probably break down. And there’s no fucking way you’re gonna lose your cool in front of Bro. You’ve spent the last ten years trying to prove to him that you can handle yourself, and you’re a fucking adult now.

Even worse, he might not be home, and then you’d probably go back to thinking he was dead again… He’s _not._

Instead, you head to the playground at the nearby park… ironically. Right… Okay, so maybe it’s a bit lame, but it reminds you of a time before the game, when an empty home or the sound of a clock didn’t paralyze you or give you flashbacks of your own death. And you’d think after five years you wouldn’t be so hung up on this shit, but you are. 

Your expression, at least, has remained safely stoic throughout this. No one else needs to know you’re on the verge of flipping your shit like pancakes at an IHoP. It manages to scare off the few kids that still play outdoors, and you settle yourself in the enclosed area at the top of the slide, out of sight.

The next time you open your eyes, it’s dark and your phone is going off. You’re pretty sure you didn’t black out this time, at least.


	2. Chapter 2

**== >**

 **  
**

You have twenty-two unread texts when you wake up, along with a crick in your neck, a bruise on your tailbone, and a chill from the now cool night air. Bro had left you two messages, one letting you know he'd be out late, there was take-out in the fridge, don't forget to eat your veggies. The second informing you that you should at least invite your boyfriend over to meet the family before letting him take you to some cheap hotel for the night (the Strider equivalent of "Where the hell are you? Are you okay?").

The other twenty texts were from John, who Bro had apparently questioned when you weren't home after he got done with his gig. This would have surprised you before the game. The two of you had always kind of stayed out of each other’s business (probably for the best when Bro's business included smuppet smut), but you'd both died now and came back without a craving for brains. So, things have been different since that nightmare had ended. Anyway, these texts were a bit more straightforward ("hey, where are you? you okay, dude? your bro texted me you're missing. heeeeeeeey! helloooooooo?), and could be ignored 'til after you'd slept more... in an actual bed.

 

 **> Dave: go home**

The apartment is dark when you get home, but it's nearly four in the morning, so that's to be expected. Bro's already asleep as far as you're aware, but you're prepared for a strife anyway, just in case. Like a fuckin' boyscout you are.

Nothing happens, though. The trip to your room is uneventful, and you're so exhausted that you don't even care that there's a pile of smuppets on your bed. You shove them to the floor, flop down fully clothed, and fall into a blissful coma 'til what will hopefully be a more acceptable hour... preferably in the late afternoon.

 

 **> Dave: wake at a better hour**

Five is not a better hour. Five is Grandma's liver casserole at a family reunion. One only partakes in it if she's standing there, glaring at you until you take a liberal portion (and then you try to sneakily dump it in a bush when she moves on to the next victim). And yet, here you are, plate loaded up with fresh, steaming, slimy, chunky, possibly squirming 5am casserole, preceded by an appetizer of horrorterror-and-death-by-stabbing nightmares.

Delicious.

You're definitely not ready to be up yet, but there's no chance you're going to get back to sleep. You still spend a good hour trying, though. The light from the rising sun permeates your cheap curtains (football print). It creeps across the room, over the ceiling, and when it finally falls in your eyes, you drag yourself out of bed.

You don't work today and have no other plans, so you're not in a hurry to prepare for the day. Instead, you flop yourself down before your turntables and start mixing. For a moment, you recall another set of tables that altered something other than sound... but you push that aside. You have ill beats to drop, sick fires to start.

It's around 11 when your stomach protests your neglect of it. You take off the headphones just in time to hear the door shut. Bro's gone. You're not sure where, but it's likely to one of his many jobs. You stopped keeping track of them years ago. There was a small space on the counter free of puppets and junk where he'd left a sandwich and a note (Eat something, dumbass. A mother worries.). You hadn't even known there was bread in the apartment, let alone any of the other stuff. There definitely wasn't any room in the fridge for it.

You eat (after checking the food for any surprises), and take a second to mollify Egbert (whoa dude coming on a little strong there), before grabbing your camera and hitting the town. By the time you saunter back home, you've got a memory card full in equal parts of quality and shitty pictures, and yesterday's craziness is a thing of the past.

The next couple weeks pass without incident (well, except for the nightmares, but no one has to know about those but you).


	3. Chapter 3

**> Dave: Wake up**

Your name is Dave Strider. You're sitting on the rough, wet pavement of some back alley. You don't know where you are. Even more disconcerting, you don't know the date or time, though you think it's some point in mid-August. It's night, you think, from the look of the grey-orange sky above the buildings, but whether it's just past dusk or just before dawn, you'll have to wait and see. There's a body propped against the wall further down the alley, where it's too dark to make out any distinguishing features. It's not moving, but it's wearing a light blue hoodie, soaked with something dark, sitting in a patch of something that shines like liquid, and you know it's John. You know he's dead. You know you need to do something.

You can't move. Your chest is tight, your mind is relatively quiet. It repeats, over and over, the same sentence. 'john is dead john is dead john is dead john is dead' You're not panicking. You don't feel anything really. You just stare at John's dead body, twenty feet from where you sit, as your mind tries to process what you already know. Your best friendleader is dead, game over. Reset?

The sky is darker, and you can barely make out the shape of the body when it finally moves. The drunk stumbles past you, almost tripping over your immobile legs, and disappears out of sight. You hardly notice. You're still staring at the spot John sat dead, unable to think or move, and the puddle your hand rests in might be blood, but you don't care. None of it matters. None of it registers. John is...

Reset? Y/N

 **> Dave: Wake up**


	4. Chapter 4

It is 3am on August 17th, and you have spent the last four hours in a far less amusing reenactment of The Hangover. You are currently seated at a 24 hour coffee shop on the opposite side of Houston from your apartment. You're not entirely sure how you got there, but you're fairly certain liberal amounts of alcohol were involved. To make matters worse, you're almost positive most of your drunken shenanigans happened the evening of the 15th. You'd finally managed to retrieve your wallet (complete with the fake ID Bro gave you for your 18th) and phone from a bar you had passed out near, at least $70 down and 48 missed messages up. Sorting through them was a bitch.

 **> Dave: Go home.**

You don't make it back to the apartment until almost six because the buses don't start running before five, and you don't have enough money left to afford a taxi. Despite the hour, Bro is waiting for you when you get home, sitting in the living room, shades off. He stares you down, and there's a nagging guilt in the pit of your stomach. This is all your fault; you're such a failure; what have you done? You stare back through your shades, shoulders slouched in a silent apology, but that's all you can muster. You're so fucking exhausted, physically, mentally, emotionally, that you can't bring yourself to react. Can't bring yourself to care how worried your guardian had probably been. You were gone for a day and a half.

"Where were you?" he asks, without pretense. Shit's for real. He's mad.

"Took a wrong turn at Albuquerque. I'd have been home sooner, but you taught me not to drink and drive." … Shit. Wrong response. You're a bit too slow to apologize. Suddenly, he's flash-stepping in front of you, anger held tightly in the tenseness of his limbs and his unshielded glare.

And fuck, but you're back at your quest bed on Lohac. Your pulse is pounding in your ears, matching the eternal tick-tick-tick of the planet's clockwork and every bit as loud. Everything's thrown into this weird, sharp focus. Bec Noir is in your face quicker than a baby-mama on Jerry Springer, sword cutting through your neck before you can react. You freeze. It all stops.

You feel nothing, you hear nothing, you see nothing. Your lifeless body slumps to the ground... You're... not dead. You're not dead. You think maybe you never died this way. Not like that matters, though. Devil-dog is still looming over you, your blood dripping from his blade. Finally, you react.

In an instant, you call a sword from your strife specibus and lash out. A little too slow, since you only manage to graze him, but graze him you do. The big bad is quick enough to avoid the majority of the damage, but blood still flows freely down the open wound on his arm. Bright red blood. Like your own. Like Bro's when... like...

Oh... oh fuck. Your stomach reels at the sight of Bro standing before you, clutching his bloody arm. This is all your fault. You're such a failure. What. The. Fuck. Have. You. Done?

 **> Dave: Abscond.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of sorry for how short these chapters are, but that's how they come out...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a pretty graphic depiction of death at the bottom of this, so if that bothers you...

**> Dave: Leave the nest**

The ride to the airport, like the rest of the week before it, is uncomfortably silent. You didn't apologize, because you know Bro wouldn't accept it, and you don't try to explain, because as long as you refuse to admit there is a problem, it doesn't exist. You know Rose would have something to say about that, but you are definitely not consulting her. You're chill. It's not like you and Bro have ever been chatty Kathies with each other. That's more the Egbert shtick. Even if Bro had started avoiding you and stopped leaving notes, you weren't going to cry about it like some overdependent teenage girl whose lame-ass sparkly boyfriend won't call her back.

  
He ruffles your hair, though, as he sees you off, and you can practically hear an "I'm proud of you, son" in the gesture, true DadEgbert-style. It's an acceptance of the apology you couldn't give, and you offer him a fist bump to show you got the message and convey everything you know other people would just say. "I'm sorry. Thanks. I'll miss you... I love you." And maybe it's not ironic to not tell someone something they already know, but you think maybe the irony is in that you don't always know these things.  
  
You land in O'Hare airport in Chicago to find the three stooges waiting for you, and your summer issues melt to the background. This is your family before you, and they are _alive_. Visibly alive. And you're not going to lose them again. No one is going to take them from you. You all pile on the bus and settle in for the three hour drive to your college.

 

**> Dave: Settle in**

One month later, things are going smoother than a baby's ass. You and Egbert are better roommates than even Miss I-see-all Lalonde could have predicted. You haven't decided on a major yet, but you and John both decided to get some of your generals out of the way and planned matching schedules accordingly. The only differences lying in the English course you share with blondie and the calculus course he has with Jade. You haven't had any attacks, blackouts, etc. and even the nightmares have eased.  
  
You're taking in the college life, complete with frat parties that you and Egbert both attend. Kid's more popular than you expected with how geeky he is. You suppose it's sufficiently ironic. You approve. Sometimes you attend as a guest, others as the DJ, but you generally leave stone cold sober. You don't need to wake up in another town next week, and no one needs to see you like that.  
  
John Egbert is always happy. Always. Like Jade's do-- like Lalonde's cat with a yarn ball. Like everything in the world is peachy-keen, hunkydory. Hello world, I'm shining so bright, a new day's here, it's really dynamite _happy._ And you think you're pretty okay with that... even if he wakes you up at ~~ungodly~~ ~~inhuman~~ fucking disgusting hours of the morning with that ~~suicide~~ homicidal rage inducing[ Folger's commercial](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YMkkQO5HUXM). ( ~~You think maybe you know how Makara felt over the ICP thing now, but you're not thinking about that.~~ )It's hard not to enjoy these times when you're surrounded by that kind of eternal optimism.

 

**> Dave: Deal with meddling ecto-sister**

"Don't you think you're possibly relying on John a little too much?"  
"Fuck off, Lalonde."  
"Very mature, Strider."  
"I'm the fucking epitome of maturity. If I was any more mature, I'd be decaying."  
"Ah, I see. Too mature. That must be the issue. Many apologies for offending your obviously overripe sensibilities."  
"Obviously you're a little too aged yourself or you would have heard me the first time. Fuck. Off."  
"Very well. Just..."  
"What?"  
"I'm here, you know. If and when he disappoints you. You can come to me."  
"..."  
"Yes, yes. 'Fucking off.'"  
  
The first time John goes somewhere and doesn't invite you along, you're thrown for a loop. You don't splutter or anything stupid like that, you just sort of stare at him for a minute, and he gives you this apologetic look, like he feels sorry for you. Like he ~~knows~~ thinks you'll be lost without him towing you around. It's ridiculous.

 

**> Dave: Nod off.**

You've gotten complacent. Whatever would Bro say? (Probably nothing, he'd just beat your ass strifing 'til you got the message.) You're entirely unprepared for what's waiting for you when you fall asleep.  
  
It starts, as it so often does, with a splash of red and the smell of blood. You watch as your insides decide they don't want to be inside anymore and escape through the gash in your abdomen. You fall forward, but you don't hit the ground. Instead, you're in a giant pot, red crocodiles nakking around you, and you can feel the boiling water scalding your skin. You try to get out, but the metal of the cauldron is too hot to touch, and when you reach out too far one of the reptiles sinks his knife-like teeth into your arm... except those aren't teeth, they're the spikes you've been impaled on.  
  
One after another, the deaths cut you to pieces and peel off your skin, burning you to a crisp. You half expect to be served to the horrorterrors on a silver platter. But you're not. That never happens, because it never happened. You stumble through and each death becomes clearer, more painful, more real as you go from the ones that would have happened given extenuating circumstances to the ones that you almost died yourself. You, instead of every dead you you had ever had to sidestep. And then come the worst, the impact of the bullets sends you tumbling backward, and there you are, drifting before the bomb that will create the Green Sun, staring into the eyes of your sister, knowing you're going to watch her die.  
  
Your world explodes in a wave of emerald, and you can't look away as her flesh and muscle and organs are burned from the bone, which soon crumble to ash and disappear.  
  
You wake up sobbing to an empty room.


	6. Chapter 6

**= >**

Things go back to normal. You and Egbert go almost everywhere together. When he asks for a night on  his own, you ~~act like you have~~ find something to do without him. You aren't the only person in the world, and John's a pretty friendly guy. It's not the ~~apocalypse~~ worst thing that could happen. You won't tell him, but you wish he wouldn't tell you when it's a date. It tends to send this sharp pain through your chest that is decidedly unironic, and you thought you'd rid yourself of that years ago.  
  
When he drags you along with him to some inane lecture or takes you to some obscure, sleazy bar to see a local band he thinks you might like, though, you're hard pressed not to grin like an idiot every time he looks at you. You're still thankful he doesn't wake up from your nightmares. And you've yet to have a panic attack or flashback or any of that shit you totally didn't fight through during the summer, so you think you're pretty solid. Even when he confesses that he's decided to go into meteorology and won't have any classes with you next semester. Egbert is a big boy, he doesn't need to consult you on every ~~potentially life changing~~ decision he makes.

  
**> Dave: Get consulted**

"I am afraid I must concede to being at a loss."  
  
"Well put that one down in the history books."  
  
"Yes, I am aware it is quite a momentous occasion."  
  
"Years from now, kids will be sitting in one of these shitty history classes going _Rose Lalonde?_ At a loss? Blasphemy. Some little wizard somewhere just lost his magic. All your shut-in internet followers started crying and don't know why."  
  
"Are you finished?"  
  
"... Yeah, think I'm good."  
  
"Wonderful. I have been informed that the course schedule I originally intended to have next semester is... slightly faulty. It appears I inadvertently overlapped some of my classes."  
  
"Well shit, break out the time turner, Hermione."  
  
"That _would_ be why I am here."  
  
"..."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I'm just a tool to you, aren't I? A watch that you don't need to carry around. You call on me when you need something and then forget I exist. You _do_ realize I can't turn time back any more, don't you?"  
  
"Is this the part where I tell you you're pretty?"  
  
"Goddamn right I'm pretty. I'm the prettiest fucking princess this side of the Mason-Dixon line."  
  
"..."  
  
"..."  
  
"Just this side?"  
  
"Bro won't surrender his crown."  
  
"Shall I take that as an agreement to assist me in sorting out my schedule? I am afraid being a triple major is catching up to me."  
  
"Yeah, alright."  
  
You end up scheduling two classes with her for the spring.

 

**> Dave: Meet the slore**

****It's three weeks from winter break that John introduces you to his girlfriend. Her demeanor reminds you of Spiderbitch. You don't say this aloud because you don't talk about the game anymore, but you do tell him you think she's a manipulative slore and, to be completely unironic for once, he deserves a hell of a lot better. His smile gets strained for a moment and then he assures you that you just don't know her well enough yet.  
  
This seems to be his cue to bring her along on all of your outings. At the parties, it's fine, but at the local band shows and anywhere else you can hear her when she opens her mouth, you can't resist cutting her down. She's clever enough she knows when you're insulting her, but she doesn't have the quick wit or eloquence to verbally fight back. Instead, she presses herself to John's side and whispers in his ear, smirking like she thinks she's got you beat. There's no way John would choose her over you at this point.  
  
Until the day comes.  
  
  
"Dave?"  
  
"Sup."  
  
"Uh... haha, sorry. This is hard, and kinda awkward. So, I think we're going to have to cut our bro-time a bit." You don't say anything, and he squirms a little, but he doesn't stop smiling. For once, you think it might annoy you. "Uh, Dave?"  
  
"Yeah, I get it. Hoes before bros. Pails before 'rails. I'm picking up what you're laying down. Your sweetheart has a thorn in her ass with my name on it and she can't seem to get it out herself so she's having you do it for her."  
  
"Dave it's not... It's just, Lisa would be more comfortable if the time I spend with her wasn't also the time I spend with you. She said... she says it feels like I'm cheating on her to her face because..."  
  
"Because no one can resist such prolonged exposure to the Strider charm? Can't blame you there, dude."  
  
"No, it's just... well, she thinks you're in love with me." Your brain stops dead. You've avoided analyzing your feelings, so you honestly don't know what they are or how to respond. "Dave? You're... you're not, right?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
“Oh…” he mumbles, and he can’t look you in the eye. “I… listen, Dave. I… damnit, I can’t do this Dave. I can’t deal with it. Things… things weren’t supposed to go this way.” Through the sludge your mind seems to have become, you vaguely note that he’s not smiling anymore. He is, in fact, crying. “I… you know me, Dave. I can’t… I can’t like you like that. That’s not how my life plays out. I think… I think maybe it’d be best if we… didn’t hang out for a while. Just kind of… spent some time apart?” He pauses a moment and then steps back to grab some of his things. No. Nonononono. John can’t leave you. You can’t do that again.  
  
“Your new puppeteer says ‘jump’ and you go sky-diving? Two months of indentured servitude is enough to break up a bromance of 6 years? How are you denser than a black hole? You’re still that 13 year old kid jumping on the first treasure map some creeper hands you.”  
  
“Dave-“  
  
“Fuck, I can’t believe you’re still siding with Spiderbitch over me.” Fuuuuuuuuck. That was definitely not cool. You can’t salvage this one, fuckass. You seem to be getting yourself into a lot of these situations lately.  
  
John’s silent and staring at you with this odd expression.  Confusion, maybe; horror, possibly; concern, definitely. And you don’t need it. You don’t fucking need his concern, because there is _nothing wrong with you_.  
  
“D… Dave? What-”  
  
“Egbert. Shut the fuck up and exit stage left.”  
  
“But-“  
  
“Yeah, sometime around now would be great.” He opens his mouth one more time, but you’re pretty sure your glare is getting to him, even if he can’t see your eyes. He always was good at reading your expressions. You just hope he leaves before the stinging in your eyes turns out to be more than a dust mote.  
  
He casts you one last look and then absconds.  
  


 **> Dave: Be a train wreck**  
The next few weeks are an unwanted flashback to summer. You lose time. One moment it's 7 in the morning and the next it's 9 at night and Egbert's awkwardly shaking you with this concerned look, asking if you'd moved and why you're suddenly skipping classes and he's sorry if it's because of him but blah, blah, blah. You brush it off. These days you're sure to only take off your shades when you're alone. The dark circles around your eyes are such a dark purple they're nearing on black. You don't know how many classes you miss, how many assignments you haven't gotten, how many meals you've neglected to ingest. You don't know the last time you slept for more than an hour. And no matter how much you want to just deny everything is happening, you know you're not going to be able to keep this up long without some serious repercussions.  
  
Despite this knowledge, you can't really bring yourself to care.


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a point, as you’re swimming in the middle of the Nile dodging hungry hungry hippos, where you start being honest about all the wrong things. For instance, you inform Rose after a time of roundabout psychoanalytic inquiry that you sleep like a fucking baby, and you admit to yourself that the scars littering your body are repulsive and who is ever going to want _that_? You don’t need to go to your classes, Striders are capable of literally falling asleep on a book and absorbing the knowledge through their pasty white skin, but despite these magical capabilities, you still have no purpose in life. Is it ironic for one as cool as you to live down by the river in a van? It won’t matter if you flunk everything if you’re already planning on dropping out. You don’t eat because you’re watching your girlish figure. John’s staying with his girlfriend; you think he might hate you; you think he’s probably got the right of it.  
  
The thought of going back to Texas, to that apartment, to Bro, definitely doesn’t make you nervous. Bro’s the shit. And there is a very, very slight chance that your hot, southern-bred self is not equipped to handle northern winters. Whoever claims Hell burns hot is a dirty goddamn lying son of a whore beget by a goat. You know better. Hell was frozen over from the beginning, filled with fucking snow. Its location may, in fact, be the upper Midwest United States.  
  
Seriously. Fuck snow. And windchill. Doublefuck windchill. It’s fucking Day After Tomorrow bullshit up in here and you must have fucked shit up when the planet remade itself because there is no fucking way normal humans could be walking around in this shit in light jackets without a flinch. These people be crazy.  
  
Egbert’s the king of the crazies. If the two of you weren’t “on a break” you’d get him a flimsy cardboard crown from Burger King. Kid’s walking around these days in short sleeves and flipflops crowing about how great the wind is. His loyal subjects seem to not think this strange in the slightest, some even nodding in admiration. Seriously, wtf was wrong with these people?  
  
Rose, while still insane, was more sensible. Coat, earmuffs, boots. Proper winterwear, if a little light for your beliefs about acceptable chill tolerance. Her taunting and newfound childish streak in the form of snowballs and handsicles to your delicate abdominal area were not endearing her to you any, though.  
  
Jade, you had thought, would be your kindred spirit in this desolate wasteland of ball shriveling cold and crazies. Fucking Lobscac up in here. But no, your epic romance forged from shared torment was not to be.  Miss “isn’t this awesome, Dave? I haven’t been able to play in snow since Lofaf!!! :D” was your new public enemy number two. Her advance Holiday Cheer and policy that every time you see the color white you go make a snow angel were absolutely, positively, 100% the reason you avoided her. The combination of her visage and snowflakes definitely didn’t bring the pain of several dozen bullets to your chest.  
  
You started out intending to pull exactly what Egbert was rocking, except maybe with shorts. The southern kid handling cold better than these yankees. You gave up on that after a few hours and decided to go in the opposite direction, piling on as many layers as you possibly can. The irony, you justify, is that the coolkid can't handle the cold. Why the fuck did you decide to come up here again?  
  
"Hey, uh, Dave?" Oh. Right.  
  
"Sup Egbert."  
  
"I, uh, haha." Damnit, John, really? The nervous giggle? You're fairly certain you're not in love with the kid, not like that at least, but you think you'd be hardpressed to find anyone who didn't find the kid adorkable. He's even fidgeting and scratching at the back of his neck. You didn't think people seriously did that outside of cheesy romcoms and shoujo manga.  
  
"You gonna ask me to prom or did you suddenly contract lice?" He pauses and gives you that look. That 'why would you even say that?' look. One part disgust, one part disbelief, two parts pass-me-the-brain-bleach-but-I-think-its-already-too-late. Shake well. Serve with a slice of lime.  
  
"Geeze, Dave. Thanks a lot! Now I'm gonna be itching all day just from the thought of it!"  
  
"If it's not lice then my dress is red." His expression now is one you can't quite figure out, which throws you off your game a bit since Egbert is the textbook example for "Heart on your sleeve." And there's a decent chance you're just ruining everything that little bit more, piling straw on the camel after it's already down for the count. You seem to be good at that.  
  
"Haha. I'll be sure to get a tie to match." You don't let out a sigh. You don't cry or grin. You just smirk a little and offer the derp a slightly tentative fistbump. If anyone can make you nervous it's this dork. He seems to see your relief, though and his grin could be used to guide ships to port. And suddenly everything's okay.  
  
In his apparent joy at your reconciliation, he misses your fist entirely and ends up punching you in the chest. Right where you remember the sword going. And you can't breathe, and you want to lash out at the enemy, but there's no enemy, there's just John, John, enemy, John has to be in danger, where is the enemy, _why aren't you doing something you useless fuck, who cares if you have a sword through you? You're the Knight, it doesn't matter what happens to you, protect the Heir._ And suddenly everything is _not_ okay. Fuck.  
  
"D-Dave? Dave? Are you alright? I'm so sorry!" The worry in his voice isn't helping any. Normally at this point you be sequestering yourself somewhere, away from people, so you could try to get your breathing under control, run through your mental list of what is and what isn't. And if all else failed, just wait it out. But John is here, and there's danger, and you can't leave John in danger. Sure the kid's a capable fighter, but you're the Knight, protect the Heir. You don't want to end up back where you were last summer, where you were before you became Davesprite, John dies, Game Over, Restart? Y/N  
  
You try to pull your sword from your strife specibus only to find it empty. You left it back in the dorm to prevent you from pulling it on anyone the way you did to Bro. And fuck, what are you going to do now? Why are you so fucking useless? Can't do anything right. Can't even figure out how to breathe. Can't even see straight. The world's kind of dimming and tilting and Egbert sure looks worried. Are you going to sit there and watch him die again without doing jack shit?  
  
You are. You're going to sit there being useless and watch your best friend die. And then you're going to turn back time and do it over again and become a Doomed Dave, resign yourself to another death, because that's what you do. You are infinitely expendable.  
  
"Strider." Oh, hey, Rose is here. She can help. She can protect John. She's a pretty crafty witch. Gog, why is your head swimming like that? "John, if you will go inform Jade that we'll have to delay our study date? I think perhaps Mr. Strider needs some rest." Everything keeps going in and out of focus, you can't seem to latch on to anything to keep it steady.  
  
"Oh. But... is he-" John. John still sounds worried. John's still alive. Rose will keep him alive... No, it doesn't matter how loopy or hysterical you feel. Striders don't giggle. You keep your damn mouth shut, Dave.  
  
"He'll be fine, John. Probably just the flu. I'll escort him back to his dorm and ensure he gets some sleep. We'll just need to have our group study another day. Go on." Sleep. Ha. Sleep is for the weak. Who needs sleeps? Definitely not you.  
  
Wait, John is leaving? Why is John leaving? Why isn't Rose going with him? Someone needs to protect him. You open your mouth to protest, but the look Rose gives you reminds you of the one and only iteration where you saw her grimdark. You think, for once, perhaps there's some wisdom in not commenting. She drags you along, and you're so caught up in trying to keep the world from not spinning too much you don't even realize where you're going until a soft shove sends you toppling ~~ungracefully~~ onto your bed.  
  
"Dave." You look at her, wondering at how everything is still so blurry. "Breathe." Breathe? Are you not breathing? Oh... maybe you're not. Huh. Well, you guess if the good witch says so... No, Dave. Giggling is still not allowed. "I am going to let you know what is going to happen now, and you are going to do as I say. Do you understand me?" It takes a minute for the words to process, and you can't really get your thoughts to focus, but she seems pretty serious, so you make the effort and nod. "You are going to go to sleep now. You are going to sleep as long as it takes for your body to recuperate, and when you wake up you are going to eat something substantial. Then, we are going to speak. _You_ are going to speak. And then we are going to get you some help. Do you understand me?" You do. You want to argue, as well. Because you're fine. There is nothing wrong with you. Everything is chill.  
  
But you're on the verge of collapse, and even you can only stay afloat in the Nile for so long. So you nod, and you think it's curious how the smile she gives you can make you kind of happy the same way John's does. And then you go to sleep.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**> Introduce yourself again**

Your name is Dave Strider, and apparently you have PTSD… Gog, that sounds like some kind of AA introduction. “Hi, I’m Dave Strider, and I haven’t had a drink in blaaahh blaaahh blaaahh.” It doesn’t help that Rose even quoted the whole “first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem” shpiel to you during your “talk.” You kind of wanted to argue, but she’s a crafty bitch with some weird idea that logic is a perfectly normal way of thinking. She had all sorts of reasons ready before you even opened your mouth… you think she might have even had a spreadsheet.

You supposed passing out from malnutrition and sleep deprivation and nearly flunking your first semester of college were pretty indisputable signs of a problem, since apparently “lies and slander” isn’t a legitimate response. And, honestly, it just felt like too much work. _Words_ are too much work.

It isn’t as hard with her as it could be, you suppose. You’ve been going to Rose with mental dilemmas for years without even thinking about it, and often she seems to know things about you you haven’t even realized yourself. The idea that she might know what the fuck is wrong with you and how to fix it… well, it isn’t so farfetched. That doesn’t mean it’s all sunshine and rainbows, though… fuck, it is definitely _not_ all sunshine and rainbows.

You’ve been shoving this shit to the background so long, it’s like pulling your own teeth just to think about it, let alone talk about it. You can’t even imagine how it’s been for Rose. You’re pretty sure you’ve been a right asshole to her, and she must have the patience of a fucking saint. By her own admission, though, she’s not a professional therapist. She is, in fact, a freshman in college, one day younger than you. Experience is not really on her side, and sometimes she pushes when she really should just back the fuck off. You think both of you probably come out of those occasions feeling like dicks. But… you never really fight? One of you will get testy and the other will feel kind of hurt, but you both know neither of you really means it, and you kind of just take it in stride… Haha… Stride. Strider…

Fuck, you’re tired.

 

**> Dave: get kidnapped**

You sleep on the plane to New York, you’re not sure how you manage to wake up neither screaming nor crying, but since you’re still not even sure how you ended up on a plane to New York or why you’re going there or what the hell Rose has schemed in that twisted head of hers… well, you’ll take what you can get and not question it. It really seems like there’d be far too much effort involved in figuring it out anyway.

Turns out New England in the middle of winter is really not much different than the Midwest in the middle of winter. That is, fucking cold and unnatural and why are you still torturing yourself like this? You proceed to avoid all attempts to get you to leave Rose’s huge-ass heated house. You notice after a couple days that the temperature indoors has risen to a kind of ridiculously high degree and you’re not sure if this is some passive aggressive attack on you in reference to your low cold tolerance or if your self-appointed therapist is actually trying to make you more comfortable. You don’t say anything about it. Whatever the reasoning, it really is comfier.

You don’t talk about your “issues” during this time. You’re not holding out, or anything. Leaving her hanging, as it were. She just doesn’t bring it up, and so neither do you. Her (your?) mom is gone, off having Christmas with the Egberts or something. So you have the house to yourselves. You know their relationship is still a little strained, but the Lalondes are a lot closer than they used to be. You’re pretty sure Ma Lalonde wouldn’t have ditched her darling daughter over the holidays if Rose hadn’t engineered it to be so.

You’re not questioning that, either.

What you are questioning is if your sister has been possessed by a five year old. It seems your first task of the break is to build the Taj Mahal of all blanket forts in her living room. She has blueprints and everything. Whether she has lost her mind or not, this is officially the best idea you’ve heard in months, and you’re all over it like flies on shit. It takes two days to build properly, since you keep  ~~zoning out~~  stopping to rest every so often and this may or may not have resulted in some cave-ins and wizard statue casualties. Once this is done, Rose pulls out a mountain of blankets from who knows fucking where and makes a huge, and admittedly very comfortable, pile in the middle of the fort.

You’re 99.9% positive this is a set-up for a troll-style feelings jam… which is why you’re possibly a bit thrown off when she still doesn’t prompt you to talk. She didn’t seem to have an issue with it back in Frozen Wasteland #1. As far as you know, nothing’s changed. You feel like, at this point, it’s kind of a challenge to see how long you can hold out before asking. Fuck that. You are gonna lock down like Fort Knox until she brings it up. You have no problems falling back on repression. It’s your fucking ground state.

This blanket pile is seriously ridiculously comfy. You suspect witchcraft.

 

It starts, as it so often does, with a splash of red and the smell of blood. You’re lying on your quest bed, a sword through your chest…  _your_  sword through your chest, staring up at yourself; your self who has just killed you. You wonder briefly if it was supposed to be to help you or himself. Then that you is dead, and now you’re the you that just killed you. You barely register the teal text on your shades before Bec Noir is slicing your throat open.

You only filter through a dozen or so deaths this time. Then you’re in your apartment, tripping over your own dead body. You make your way up to the roof, side stepping a Davecorpse here and there. The smell of burning flesh gets to you soon, and the bodies start getting more frequent. You have to start shoving some into Lohac’s lava sea in order to get to the next platform. Soon, you can’t even push them aside, you have to start stepping over them, on them. And it’s hard to navigate when Lofaf’s snow is starting to cover them up, camouflage them with the rest of the landscape. You have to stop moving soon. The piles are impossible to get over or around. You’re stuck in this empty space, with nothing to look at but your own dead face.

Once upon a time, you’d have made that into a rap… a really depressing rap.

Your legendary piece of crap is really not ideal for this. You kind of wish you had Jade’s gun.  Bluh. Suck it up, cowboy. You make do with what you’ve got.

“Dave.” It’s Rose’s voice, and she’s here floating above your mountain of dead alternates. She’s flickering, sort of. From the regular Rose; to the grimdark Rose, covered in her own blood; to godtier Rose, all light and smug smiles; to that last image of her before the sun destroyed you completely, flesh peeling from bone. She is all of these because she was only ever her. She didn’t have all these alternates to take the wounds for her, to end up stumbling over… it’s nice to see her, though, still alive at the end like this. “Dave. It’s time to stop. Come back now.”

Yes. Time to stop. You give her a smile, just to let her know, for once, that she really is important to you.

You run yourself through with your shitty broken sword.

You’re just another dead Dave.

 

**> Dave: come back now.**

You wonder for a minute why you can still see Rose when you’re dead. You’re pretty sure that’s not how this dying thing is supposed to work.

“Dave.” She says, kind of sad, just like she did before. “Dave it’s alright. You’re okay. Come back now.” You’re okay? How are you possibly okay? You’re dead. Why is she still bothering with you? She should be going to find the new Dave prime. “Dave? It was a dream, Dave. You’re not there. You’re here, in my home. You’re okay.”

Oh… you suppose that explains the crick in your neck. You’d hope you wouldn’t have such aches when you’re dead.

You’re not dead.

Oh God, you’re not dead yet.

Rose holds you while it hits you. She doesn’t say anything about how you’re getting her shirt wet with your tears. From the occasional drop on the top of your head, you think she might be crying too. You catch yourself wondering if it’s because the burns are still hurting her before you reaffirm your grip on reality.

She’s not dead. She’s whole. So are you. Physically, at least.

You’re not dead.

Damn.


	9. Chapter 9

**> Dave: get contemplative and kind of morose**  
  
Little known fact? You actually really enjoy reading. It takes years of study to come up with sick rhymes like you do. Poe? Fucking master. Though, now that you consider it, you’re kind of disappointed that you don’t recall even a single “Nevermore” joke being made at or by Davesprite. Way to miss a great opportunity everyone. One of the many great things about crashing at the Lalonde place is Rose’s personal library. She’s actually got some pretty good shit in there between all the lengthy fantasy novels with not so subtle homoerotic subtext.

Other perks of being kidnapped to this frozen tundra include the free, almost endless, in house liquor bar and a self-appointed chaperone to make sure you don’t end up in, like, Canada or something. The place is in the middle of nowhere, too, so there’s actually this amazing view of the stars at night that you’d never even dreamed of living in Houston. Even better, Rose refuses to come out at night for more than a few minutes. So, after convincing your babysitter you won’t jump, armed with booze, blankets, and a thermos of hot cider, you take to spending a couple hours of your sleepless nights up on the roof staring at the sky without anyone else to bother you.

You suppose that’s not entirely fair to Rose. She’s not nagging. She’s not pushing. You’re not really getting on each other’s nerves. Everything’s going pretty great, actually. You’re just, still not entirely ready to admit there’s anything wrong, no matter how much _everything_ is shouting it in your face, and she’s just kind of a reminder of that. Yet another person you’re pushing under in your attempt to stay afloat in the Nile… Okay, that one’s getting a little tired… like you. Heh.

Fuck.

It’s nearing 2AM and you finally set the rum aside. The stars are swimming and so is your head, but you’re not ready to sleep. You’re never ready to sleep.  You’d like to start bringing something caffeinated up here with you instead of just cider, but you think Rose might intervene. She already opposes your attempts to avoid sleep. Maybe it would help if you actually told her how horrible it is, but if there’s one thing you’ve got going for you, it’s a strong stubborn streak. ~~Though you don’t know how well it’s actually going _for_ you. ~~

Fuckshit.

What are you even doing?  Are you going to just keep running away from all your problems? Some fucking knight you are. You’re just gonna keep pushing away every fucking person you care about until there’s no one left but you. It won’t even be that hard, you’ve already fucked yourself over with three of the four. Running pretty good odds here. You’ll isolate yourself and fall into some self-pity shit, get yourself hopped up on stimulants and then drown them in booze. You wonder vaguely if ODing is a painful way to die. You kind of hope so and then you hate yourself that little bit more.

You’re such a fucking loser. Can’t keep yourself together. Really? Planning your suicide now? Way to make all your other deaths infinitely more useless. They’d all be ashamed of you, just like you’re sure your pseudo-family is now. Why wouldn’t they be? You’re ashamed of yourself.

God, you just have to be a mopey drunk, don’t you.

A river of stars is the only witness to your tears, and you worry briefly that they’ll freeze to your face, but you don’t stop crying until you’re too dry to let any more moisture escape. You’re so tired, but you still can’t let yourself sleep, so you stare at the horizon and just kind of drift away from yourself. You’d rather not be you anyway.

You don’t come back to your frozen shell until the sun is rising and Rose appears with a new, warm blanket to lead you back downstairs.

She looks kind of tired, too.

 

**> Dave: be the knight**

You spend most of the day completely spaced out. When a pale hand places your daily meal in front of you, only the slight clack of the plate on the table even registers. You’ve been living in silence for the last couple days, plus you have a hangover, which strikes you as kind of unfair, since you can’t even sleep it off.

“I think we should talk.” Your head jerks up almost involuntarily to stare at the woman across from you. Her eyes seem like they must be almost as wide as yours, and that’s when you realize you’re the one who spoke… well, it’s too late to take it back now. Time to stop running away, Dave. “I-I think we should talk.”

She nods and gives you a smile. Not the smug one she usually has, but the legitimately pleased, tender one that makes you kind of happy and proud of yourself for causing.

 After eating, the two of you retire to your fort. Despite your stubbornness and the somewhat rough start you got before winter break started, the night, this beginning, goes smoothly. Rose doesn’t push you, and she doesn’t just sit there listening. She talks about the things that happened to her in the game too, and tells you you’re going to be okay in her tone and her gestures more than her words. And then you watch some horrible movie she enjoys and you have her listen to an old mix you made. At some point she hands you some bright pink drink that tastes more like sugar than alcohol but helps your hangover. She herself nurses a glass of wine (the first you’ve ever seen her drink) while she reads passages from some “classic” and explains how, really, it’s all about gay sex. You take a turn and read the whole chapter with the most suggestive tone you can manage. You didn’t know Rose could giggle like that.

The roof of your fort is starting to lighten with the rising sun and Rose is already half asleep, your stomach claimed as her pillow, when you finally surrender to the pull of oblivion. You just barely catch a whispered “Happy New Year, Dave.” And you fall asleep with a smile and, for the first time in a long time, some hope for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I’m pretty sure this is the last chapter? And that kind of scares me? I’ve never finished a multi-chapter fic before. I kind of don’t know what to do with myself. And their stories aren’t really done (you can read the next installment, from John’s pov [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/366066)) but I had originally intended to cover more in this, and I feel like I’m kind of leaving them hanging? But… it’s done and… Ok. I’m gonna stop whining now.

**Author's Note:**

> [On Tumblr](http://alwaysboth.tumblr.com/tagged/Chill/chrono)


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